Paula Cunningham

Aubade

A man is squeezing oranges in my kitchen. I am down the corridor in bed and he is squeezing oranges in my kitchen. From where I lie I cannot see the man but I’ve deduced that he is squeezing oranges.

There is something tremendously erotic about a man squeezing oranges. What is erotic is the sound. This man has found my orange squeezer without my prompting. He does not know I know he’s squeezing oranges.

Lying here, listening to the sound of a man secretly squeezing oranges at 1.09 of a Sunday afternoon, I am struck by the fact that I’ve never heard any sound quite so erotic as the sound of a man squeezing oranges.